


A Festivus Miracle

by TC (thecollective)



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade 2015 Winter Challenge [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker, Bunker Sex, Christmas, Christmas in the Bunker, Festivus, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Holidays, Human Castiel, Human Castiel in the Bunker, Kevin is alive, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Season 9, Team Free Will, blatantly ignores canon, flucrangst, grumpy!dean, horizontal hokey pokey, sex in cardigans, this might be a crack fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 08:19:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5532326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/pseuds/TC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel decides to celebrate Festivus. There is the traditional airing of grievances, the feat of strength, and, of course, the festivus miracle. </p><p>(Set in season 9 but Kevin's alive, Zeke is nowhere to be seen, and Castiel is living as a human in the bunker.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Festivus Miracle

**Author's Note:**

> I have to thank Tadeudz for sending me a Festivus gif the other day on Twitter, which inspired this fic. As always, I must thank jacksqueen16 and Collectiva Diva for always encouraging (and indulging) the weird as fuck ideas I have. This is a combination of fluff + crack + angst, hence it's tagged "flucrangst."
> 
> This fic blatantly, unashamedly, and unrepentantly abandons canon on the side of the road. I learned everything I know about this holiday from Wikipedia and from the Seinfeld episode "The Strike." Happy belated Festivus, and happy holidays! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. I merely borrow them and have my way with them.

It’s three days to Christmas, not that Dean’s counting, when he stubs his left big toe on the stripper pole that’s appeared in the bunker’s library. “What the _fuck_!” he yells. He kicks the pole again, to show it who’s boss, and belatedly realizes that it is made of aluminum. He’s still spewing expletives when Sam pokes his head into the room and says, “Someone hasn’t had their coffee yet.”

“Yeah, fuck you,” says Dean. He glares at the stripper pole. “Get yourself an early Christmas present, Sammy? I hear it’s a good workout for the thighs.”

“What? That’s not mine. I thought it was yours!”

“I’d bring the stripper home, but I’d supply the pole.” That comment earns Dean a bitchface, but he feels like it was worth it. He heads into the kitchen, because really, it’s too early to deal with mysteriously appearing stripper poles without at least three cups of coffee in his system. 

He’s on cup number two when Cas walks into the kitchen, carrying bags of groceries. The former angel begins pulling containers out of the bags and methodically lining them up on the counter. Sam walks in a minute later with another two bags and begins restocking the fridge.

The former angel wears humanity well, Dean decides. His friend had taken to jeans like a fish to water, and Dean isn’t ashamed to admit that the view is a good one. “Whaddya got there, Cas?” asks Dean. He’s curious to see what culinary experiment Cas will try next (last week, Cas had a hankering for creme brûlée and Dean had begrudgingly admitted that it was as good as pie). 

“I’m preparing a Festivus feast,” Cas replies. He pulls out a baking pan and lines it with wax paper. 

“A what?”

Kevin walks into the kitchen just then. “Festivus?” he says. “I saw that episode of Seinfeld. My mom loves that show! You have the Festivus pole, right?”

“ _Festivus_?” Dean asks to no one in particular, and Cas ignores him. 

“In the library,” says Cas. Kevin rushes out of the room, apparently to see all the festive brilliance that is an aluminum pole.

So it wasn’t a stripper pole, after all. Dean finds that he’s kind of disappointed at that. 

“So why Festivus?” asks Sam. He sidles up next to Cas and starts helping him chop vegetables. 

“Well, as a human, I believe it is expected to participate in festivities around the winter solstice,” Cas says. His voice is stiff, defensive, as if he expects a debate on the subject. Dean just sips his coffee and waits for either his brother or Kevin to give in and ask about it. 

“Why not Christmas?”

“Because I believe that celebrating Christmas would be showing preference to one religion over the others,” Cas explains. “My father created the earth and humanity, you all chose to construct the rest—politics, religion, gender…those are all human constructions.”

“But God created men _and_ women, didn’t he?” Dean interjects. It may have been an while since he cracked open the good book, but he’s still pretty sure that Adam and Eve were a thing. 

“Actually, that is a common misconception. God is not gendered, and the first humans were intersex. It’s all in the Gospel of Thomas, which your religion has chosen to forget.” 

“Inter what?”

“Hermaphrodites,” interrupts Sam.

“Actually that term is no longer politically correct.”

“Says who?” After all, who can keep track of what’s P.C. and what’s not nowadays? It changes every five fucking minutes, Dean thinks bitterly. 

“The internet.”

“Festivus,” Dean mutters under his breath. “Fucking festivus.” It’s still too early in the day for this, so Dean pours himself is third cup of joe leaves to queue up the next season of _The Walking Dead_. Zombies are much less complicated than his current bunkermates, and, on some days, probably a lot less likely to kill him. He’s still like that, sprawled diagonally across his bed watching Netflix with an empty coffee mug on the nightstand, when Sam walks in and throws a pair of jeans at his head. “Ow! What the—?”

“Get dressed and come eat with us,” Sam orders. “Don’t fuck this up” is implied in his brother’s tone of voice. 

He’s still chewing out Sam for interrupting his bingewatch when he’s dressed and entering the library, which Cas has converted into the Festivus festivity room. The stripper, errr, Festivus pole, has become even more unassuming, pushed into a corner of the room. The library is largely unadorned, but Cas has placed a deep green tablecloth over one of the long wood tables. 

There’s enough food there to feed twice as many people, and even the Festivus meatloaf, which Cas proudly pointed out to him, looks (and smells) really damn good. Even if Festivus is not the holiday he would choose to celebrate, he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth and turn down home-cooked food. There’s just one thing missing, however. 

“I’m gonna grab a beer,” he says as he heads into the kitchen. “Can’t do a holiday without booze.”

Cas stops him with a glare. “There is no alcohol allowed at the Festivus feast,” he says, “And that brings me to the first of Festivus traditions: the airing of grievances.” 

Dean slides into the chair nearest Kevin, who gives him zero sympathy as Castiel explains that the purpose of the tradition is to share your many frustrations with the world. “To get them off your chest, so to speak,” he finishes.

Everyone looks uncomfortable at the prospect of airing their dirty laundry, but Kevin starts with someone he hates: Justin Bieber. They all, of course, agree with him, and after that it’s a free-for-all of pettiness and insults to the world at large. Sam hates people who “forget” to use their turn signals when they drive, and that earns him a round of applause. Dean bitches for five minutes on the misguided smugness that people have when they “read the book _before_ it was a movie.” Cas adds in that he hates slushy machines, and that sends a pang of guilt through Dean as he thinks about his friend living in a goddamn Gas-n-Sip.

Sam vocalizes the thought, however, and adds, “I’m sorry, Cas. I wish you would have stayed here with us.”

“I was not welcome.”

The table grows silent then, and Dean swears he could hear the world turning. He doesn’t know how to explain this to Sam without revealing Zeke, and he doesn’t know if Cas will keep the secret or not. He sends Cas a pleading look, and Cas gets the message but still says, “Your brother was not comfortable with me around.”

Sam’s head swerves around so fast that Dean swears he must have whiplash. “Explain,” Sam demands. 

“Uhhhh….” Dean squirms. He _knew_ that nothing good would come of clearing the grievances or whatever.

Cas saves him again by announcing, “Dean is uncomfortable with the more than platonic attraction he holds for me. My presence confuses his heteronormative instincts, so I thought it best to leave for a time.”

“I hate Festivus,” Dean mutters under his breath. If he ever meets Jerry Seinfeld, he’s gonna knock him one in the teeth for airing that damn episode. Sam and Kevin are the ones that look like they’ve swallowed a gallon of lemon juice, and it can’t be more than twenty seconds into the awkwardest silence ever that Sam suggests that he and Kevin go play Call of Duty so that Dean and Cas can “work out some more grievances.” 

Dean’s about to protest when he sees the look on Sam’s face, the one that very clearly says, “ _work your shit out.”_ He swallows his pride and lets the other two men leave him and Cas alone. Sam and Kevin grab their plates of food and leave the library, and Dean watches as the former angel eats in silence. Fork to plate, fork to mouth, repeat. 

Dean wants to rip the fork from Castiel’s hand. “I hate the way you eat,” he says. “It’s robotic. Not human.”

Cas hums acknowledgement and continues eating. His bites are louder, more distinct, now. “I dislike that you drink so much,” Cas says between bites. “I wish you would express your feelings rather than drink them like your father did.”

“So, what we’re just gonna clear the air now? Just say all the shit we don't like about each other?”

“It would appear so,” Cas says. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, sets it on the table. He crosses his hands in front of him, and just stares at Dean expectantly.

Dean’s tempted to make a sarcastic remark and storm out of the room— _The Walking Dead_ is still queued up, he remembers—but then he thinks of the wounded puppy look on his friend’s face the day he asked him to leave the bunker and he stays instead. “Why did you tell Sam _that_ about me? Of all the excuses to use, why that one?”

“I did not _have_ to tell Sam anything. You could have explained it yourself. I was _trying_ to do you a favor.”

There’s something about the way Cas stresses certain words that grates Dean’s nerves, something that makes him want to reach across the table and shake the other man until he sees stars. He settles for glaring at Cas, and the glare is return tenfold. It becomes a standoff, both men unwilling to look away, to concede. “I told Sam a version of the truth,” Cas says at last. “I have, in the past, left you alone because you were uncomfortable with the trajectory of our relationship.”

“If we’re going to talk about all the ways we’ve hurt each other, then what about purgatory? You gonna tell me that’s because _I_ was afraid to be queer or some shit? Or how about that time _you_ decided to become God? You left me way before I ever left you.” It’s petty to bring up such old history, Dean knows, but he wants to hurt Cas, to lash out and sink his claws so deep into Castiel’s flesh that the other man can never leave him again, one way or another. 

Cas stands up and moves to the other side of the table, next to Dean. He leans back against it, as if he needs the extra support for whatever he’s about to say next. “Look at me,” he says. 

Dean does. The blue of Castiel’s eyes hits him like a punch to the jaw.

“Do you remember what I said to you the first night we spoke? I told you that you deserved to be saved, and sometimes, Dean, you need to be saved from yourself. _That_ is my biggest grievance with you.” Cas leans down, so his face, his eyes, his lips, are within centimeters of Dean’s. Dean can feel the pulse of hot breath on his cheek when Cas says, “You can leave this room and never speak of this, or…” He draws out the last word, and leans in further until his lips touch Dean’s earlobe. “Or you can kiss me.” The words are spoken like a challenge, like Cas doesn’t believe that Dean is capable of what he is asking. 

Dean is always up for a challenge. 

There’s nothing tentative about the kiss he gives Cas, And Cas? He gives as good as he gets, and Dean feels it from the tips of his toes to the follicles of his hair. Cas smells like cloves and he tastes like honey, and Dean’s pretty sure that every disagreement they've ever had has been leading up to this moment. Cas, deceptively strong even as a human, pulls him out of his chair and all but throws him on the table, shoving plates and dishes aside. 

There’s a moment, a small moment, when Dean thinks of the argument they just had, and that Sam or Kevin could walk in at any moment, but then Cas crawls onto the table. And then he is on top of Dean, thigh to thigh, hip to hip. It’s a heavier weight than Dean is used to, and the planes of Castiel’s firm, toned body is also a new experience for him. 

Cas kisses him, his tongue tracing the outline of Dean’s lips, demanding entrance. Dean grants it. He arches up into Cas, delighting in the friction he finds there. Cas groans into his mouth and reaches down between them for Dean’s fly. “Whoa, tiger,” Dean says, pulling away. “Don’t you think this is a little fast?”

“I think four years of unresolved sexual tension is quite enough, don’t you?”

Dean pauses just long enough to consider the implications behind those words, then he shrugs his shirt off and tosses it away. He reaches for Castiel’s cardigan next, then realizes that it’s _his_ cardigan. Something about Cas wearing his clothes without permission sends a jolt of arousal straight to Dean’s dick and he all but growls, “Keep the sweater _on_.” The jeans, however, should go. He shimmies his jeans down and does the same for Cas, which is really quite awkward considering the other man is still laying on top of him. Briefly, Dean wonders why this is called the “horizontal tango” when it probably looks more like the horizontal Hokey Pokey. 

Such thoughts are abandoned as soon as Cas’s mouth latches onto Dean’s nipple. Dean arches up into Cas, and the thin fabric of his boxer briefs doesn’t hinder the delicious friction between his cock and Cas’s. He kisses Cas anywhere he can reach—the top of his head, the edge of his ear, the tip of his eyebrow—as he rocks up into him. It’s frantic, rushed, and kinda perfect. Cas is muttering things in what Dean is sure is Enochian in between thrusts. Eventually, he curses and reaches down between them to push their boxers aside. “Not enough,” he pants. 

No, not nearly enough, Dean agrees. His breath hitches when Cas takes him in hand, pumping him in long steady strokes. “Fuck,” he chants, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

“Maybe for Christmas, if you are nice,” Cas says without batting an eye. 

Dean would make a snappy comeback if his brain wasn’t being jerked out through his dick. 

Cas’s hand moves, and he lines his cock up next to Dean’s. He slowly, painstakingly, thrusts his dick so that every centimeter of it brushes against Dean’s. “Oh fuck,” Dean says again. He arches up when Cas thrusts down, and Dean swears if he doesn’t come soon he might cry. “Please, Cas,” he says, “Please.”

Cas kisses Dean, and it’s a haze of lips and teeth and tongues until Cas reaches down and cradles Dean’s balls, gently squeezing in time with his thrust. That’s game over for Dean and he comes in Castiel’s hand. Cas kisses him through his orgasm, and doesn’t stop kissing him until he comes on Dean’s stomach.

They lay in breathless post-coital bliss until Kevin very loudly calls down the hall, “I just beat Sam in the Festivus Feat of Strength!”

After a brief pause, they hear Sam say, “It’s a damn Festivus miracle.” His voice is full of bitterness. 

Castiel laughs into Dean’s shoulder, and Dean decides that maybe there’s something to this Festivus thing after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are love. You can find me on [Tumblr](http://casual-female-viewer.tumblr.com) or [](http://www.twitter.com/dearcollectress>Twitter</a>.%0A%0AA%20very%20happy%20holidays%20to%20you%20and%20yours!)


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